


Nowhere I'd Rather Be

by holyhael



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, Femslash, Journalism, Newspapers, antique store
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9667214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyhael/pseuds/holyhael
Summary: Cassie stares through the downpour at the antique store where the subject of her next assignment is waiting for her. She probably should have insisted this interview be done by phone or even by email, but her boss would not budge. The article she’s drafted about the local antique store doesn’t need commentary about the interviewee’s body language, just a few choice snippets about interesting finds and the like. Which can be gotten with a quick phone call.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how newspapers or journalism works.
> 
> Prompted by an anonymous person on tumblr: can i request Cassie/Sarah?? uuhhmm.... Cassie is a reporter forced to do a piece about antiques, and when she goes to interview someone who specializes in that she expects to meet someone old and boring, but Sarah is anything but.

Cassie stares through the downpour at the antique store where the subject of her next assignment is waiting for her. She probably should have insisted this interview be done by phone or even by email, but her boss would not budge. The article she’s drafted about the local antique store doesn’t need commentary about the interviewee’s body language, just a few choice snippets about interesting finds and the like. Which can be gotten with a quick phone call.

Journalism isn’t all that Cassie thought it was cracked up to be. She’s stuck under the thumb of the newspaper’s editor, who consigns the big stories to his son-in-law and passes off fluff pieces to womanly hirelings like Cassie. Another reporter of her gender, Anna Milton, gave her a sympathetic look as their boss allocated articles; Anna was assigned an article about the increase in drug arrests, while the editor’s son-in-law, Biff Sundry, was given last night’s deadly arson.

Cassie doesn’t know a lot about Wolfram Antiques, just what she could find from their obsolete Facebook page.

_Wolfram Antiques is a family run business, located in downtown Port Meeker. The store has everything from clothing, furniture, books, jewelry, art, and more!_

_Originally opened in 1967 by John Wolfram, the store has been passed down to his daughter Tamara. Wolfram Antiques is open seven days a week, from 10 AM to 5 PM every day. It is a destination for tourists, boaters, and local residents alike._

_Wolfram Antiques has won 2nd place in the “Best Antique Store” category in the “Best of North Colby” contest!_

Cassie has never been.

Bracing herself, Cassie exits her car. She double checks the locks, then hurries for the shelter of the store. Standing water soaks her feet. She should’ve worn her better boots.

An automated bell announces her entrance. Except for soft oldies music, the store is eerily silent. And it’s crowded. The only difference between Wolframs Antiques and a hoarder’s house is the level of organization. Cassie feels claustrophobic the moment she steps inside.

A mesh wall on which ornaments hang hides the counter from immediate view. The counter, like the rest of the store, appears abandoned. There is a second floor, which one can access from a small flight of stairs five feet from the entrance. To the right of the stairs, a sign with an upwards pointing arrow proclaims, “Books this way!”

“Hello?” Cassie calls out. “Tamara Wolfram?”

_Thump_!

The sound comes from upstairs and is followed by a quiet _Ow_.

Cassie’s hand is on the railing and she has one foot on the steps when a woman’s face appears from above. The woman rubs her hand over the back of her head. She’s much younger than Cassie anticipated. This isn’t Tamara, is it?

“Caught you by surprise?” Cassie assumes with a smirk.

“I was just organizing. Low ceiling.” Her smile is rueful.

“Are you Tamara Wolfram?”

“Oh, no. I’m Sarah. Tamara hasn’t been in today. She’s ancient, so she doesn’t like going out in this weather.” Realization dawns across her face. “You’re that reporter, aren’t you?”

“Cassie Robinson, with the Port Meeker Tribute.” Climbing to the top of the stairs, she offers Sarah her hand. Sarah’s handshake isn’t very firm, and her hands are dusty; Cassie pretends not to notice either of these things, nor the way Sarah’s eyes shine, nor her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, nor her small, glossy mouth…. Cassie averts her eyes. “You weren’t kidding about the ceiling.”

“It’s a new addition,” Sarah explains. “Tamara needed more space, and she had nowhere to go but up.”

Books of every size and color line the walls, and there are even more on separate bookshelves. The ceiling is shorter than most, and slanted; at its lowest, the ceiling can’t be more than five feet tall. At the center of the room - which Cassie realizes might be more adequately described as an attic - is a mismatched set of lounging chairs and coffee tables.

“Looks cozy.” Cassie can certainly imagine spending a rainy afternoon like today up here, curled up with a yellowed book and a mug of Americano. She wonders if Sarah would mind.

“Yeah, I like it up here.” Sarah follows Cassie’s gaze around the room then takes a deep breath. “I can answer any questions you have, if you don’t mind.”

“No, of course not.” The words come out a bit too fast. Cassie takes a deep breath, filling her nose with the dusty, weathered smell that permeates the library.

“Just hold on. I should close up. Make sure we’re not interrupted.”

Cassie almost tells her not to, that she won’t take long and that Sarah shouldn’t sacrifice potential customers of the store because Cassie. But then she sees a glimmer in Sarah’s eyes and a particular set of her lips, and Cassie’s heart thumps wildly, her stomach flip flops.

“I’ll be right back. You can make yourself comfy.” Sarah gestures toward the haphazard circle of chairs in the center of the room, and she slips by Cassie on her way down the stairs, so close that their hands brush.

Cassie waits until Sarah reaches the last step to mutter under her breath, “ _Fuck_.”

Cassie chooses the dull orange wing chair to settle in and takes her notepad and a pen out of her bag. Sarah reappears within moments; she takes the paisley chair next to Cassie and sits sideways in it, her legs folded up and her hand cradling her chin.

The music that played downstairs is absent here, replaced by the pitter-patter of rain. Cassie licks her lips and swallows.

Her notepad is full of questions she planned on asking, but the first one that she brings up is nowhere on her list.

“Do you come here often?”

Sarah laughs uproariously, as though Cassie didn’t just use the lamest pickup line in the world. Her laugh is infectious, making Cassie grin. She finds herself mirroring Sarah’s pose, although the wet ankle of her jeans has her readjusting.

It’s the least professional interview Cassie has ever done, more like a conversation, really. Regardless, she still gets all the information she needs to write her article, and more: most importantly, Sarah’s cellphone number.

Time ceases to exist, until it rudely butts its head inside their little bubble, reminding them it exists in the form of an alert on Cassie's phone to take her birth control.

“Holy shit,” Cassie says, sliding away the notification.

“What?”

“It’s seven o’clock.” They’ve been talking for three hours, yet it feels like no time has passed at all. Cassie glances at the small window over her shoulder; the sky is dark.

“Damn.” With a frown, Sarah looks down and places a hand over her abdomen. “I forgot dinner.”

“I hope you didn’t have anywhere to be.” She says it with about as much apology as a cat would give a mouse before eating it. She knows Sarah doesn’t care. They’re on the same wavelength: this is going somewhere, this feels right.

Sarah is awfully close and leaning closer. Their chairs definitely weren’t this close when they began.

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” Sarah says, her lips meeting Cassie’s.

Cassie can't help but agree.


End file.
